Time passed and Martin fell into a routine. He would go drinking with the dockers once a week, and once a week he’d go to the range to practice shooting. Mostly he was on his own, but occasionally joined by George, who would tutor him on dueling technique and strategy, or by Jacques, who had acquired a revolver and had entrusted it to the gun safe at George’s range for Martin to use whenever he visited. Whatever had happened to the revolver taken from the servant of the Beautiful Goddess, he hadn’t yet said. If they didn’t meet at the range, he’d meet Jacques at the Chapel of the Faceless God, where they’d spar. In response to Martin’s request for more knowledge, Jacques had been supplementing these lessons with information about servants of the cosmics. The lectures included their master’s history, their typical abilities, and strategies for dealing with them, although most of the strategies involved getting away.

  “You took on the identity of a washed up, drunken sailor, Martin. You chose the wrong path for power.” Jacques would repeatedly remind him. “You’ve got to make due with the tools you have, and not take on anything beyond your ability to deal with. Opportunities will come, but you have to be alive to take advantage of them.”

  With the lessons with Jacques, he felt like he was slowly making progress, both in physical ability as well as his ability to understand and respond to situations. At home as well, Martin started to feel like he was building a better relationship with Boudica. The extra days home gave them more time to talk, and avoiding any more all night dice matches made her think he was serious about turning over a new leaf. He had even surprised her the other day by helping with the dishes. Jacques was right, he had taken over the body of a washed up drunk, but that didn’t mean he had to wallow in it. It was his body now, and he needed much more from it if he was going to achieve his own aims.

  The only front he felt like he was lagging on was the one that mattered the most—Bartholomew Crane. He had barely even seen the man since he had started working at the Landing, and never exchanged a single word with him. His few conversations with Victor Harrow, Crane’s right hand man, had remained non-committal. In terms of his work performance, he had long gotten over his fear of being exposed for a rookie mistake, and was now believably and confidently a veteran stevedore. Not only that, but he had done as much as he could to walk back Martin’s famous temper, and there had been no incidents that could possibly hurt him for a promotion. Well, no incidents that he had caused at least. Who knew for sure all the stories in Martin’s past that could be dragged into the light by the smallest match flame of scrutiny.

  Martin was rolling over what to do about the situation on his way into work. As usual, he arrived about the same time as Dillion. He could see his slightly ungainly gait ahead and sped up a bit to catch him.

  “Morning Dillion. Managed to beat the sun again today I see.” he said by way of greeting.

  Dillion turned and flashed his too wide smile, one that never seemed to reach his eyes and responded with “early bird catches the worm, or so they say. Though I’ve never much cared for worms myself.” Dillion’s joke fell completely flat, not just from its devastating lack of humor, but because Martin’s eyes locked on the scratches on Dillion’s face.

  “Are you alright?” Martin asked, touching his own cheek to indicate what he was asking about.

  “Yeah, just my cat acting up last night. I’ll be fine in a day or two.” Martin looked more carefully at the scratches. They were too large and too far apart for any cat he had seen. If he had to guess, they were made by a human.

  Sly joined them shortly thereafter in the locker room, and his take was similar in its basis, but far different from Martin’s in its conclusion.

  “You forgot to tip your prostitute last night, Dillion?” he said with a laugh. “Rookie mistake.”

  Dillion smiled along silently but in typical fashion did nothing to rebuke Sly. Monika lept to his defense to protect Dillion’s purity, so Sly responded by teasing them both. Martin kept to himself, lost in thought. Since the battle with the servant of the Beautiful Goddess, Dillion’s smile had continued to unnerve him. It was nowhere near the scale of the abomination on that woman’s face, but something about it just seemed connected. Dillion had always been nothing but kind to him and everyone he had observed him with, so he couldn’t imagine what had caused those scratches.

  Eventually the port opened for the day and conversation was cut off in the flow of goods through the dockyard. Times were tough and even more people were in line for day work, but recognizing this those with steady employment at the Landing were even more zealous in guarding their positions. Few were willing to call in sick unless they were absolutely on death’s door. The day passed quickly and efficiently. A shipment of grain from Brannloch caused a minor disturbance as a few of the men were unwilling to handle anything from that place, but Harrow showed up quickly enough, and no one was scared enough to let their fear of contamination prevent them from getting their days pay.

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  During lunch time Sly decided to give Dillion and Monika a break from the mornings teasing and changed the subject.

  “Did you hear the Grey Man took another last night?’

  “No, not again,” Monika cried. “Is that the fourth victim now?”

  “Fourth that the police have admitted to.” Sly answered, taking a drink from his flask. He claimed it was water but a few of the boys at the dock had a running bet on what was really in there. “But who knows how many orphans are lying in some corner or alley somewhere with the Grey Man to blame.”

  “You’re horrible,” Monika moaned. “Surely they’ll catch him sooner rather than later. Right Martin?”

  “Hmm, it’s hard to say. There’s a lot that goes on in this city even without murderers, and as long as he just targets orphans and urchins, there won’t be much pressure on the police to find him.”

  “As much as I hate the papers,” Sly cut in, “that’s maybe the one good that can come from sensationalizing a monster like that. Get everyone into a right panic, panic moves the politicians, and come election time police are scrambling for a win to boost their reputation. They’ll have him in a few months I’m sure.”

  “I can only pray the True Creator hurries them along.” Monika said, never particularly pious but sincere enough to pray for those less fortunate than herself.

  “They say this time the orphan was able to fight back. The Grey Man picked someone a bit, on the slow side, but with a fierce strength. Apparently the police found blood on his fingers, as if he had grabbed at his assailant.”

  “With today’s science they must have some way to catch him if they have his blood, or maybe some alchemy from the Church of the Creator?” Monika asked.

  “Who can say?” Martin said. “The Church has a lot of abilities they don’t advertise.”

  “You’re starting to sound like your wife.” Sly joked. “But I’d be worried about too many eggheads getting involved. I heard a story about a politician that got shot on the continent. The bullet failed to kill him, but got lodged somewhere in his back. He was a fairly well liked politician, not like the ones we have here, so all sorts of doctors and physicians and just straight up quacks showed up trying to help out. Apparently, they all spent so much time and energy fishing around the bullet hole with their fingers they ended up poking him to death!”

  “Why do you always bring up those kinds of stories while I’m eating?” Monika asked.

  “Apologies, Monika. Enjoy your sandwich.”

  They lapsed into silence to enjoy their meals for a bit. As they were eating, Martin kept a close eye on Dillion, who had been silent throughout the exchange. The child had been able to fight back, Sly had said. Dillion had looked surprised at that, but no more so than Monika or Martin himself had been. Martin had been sure he had seen the Grey Man, that mustached man whistling through the streets at night, but if Dillion was somehow connected through some cosmic means... It was a long shot, but Martin couldn’t get it out of his head. He would have to check on Dillion and see where it led.

  Although it would break his newly established routine, upon finding Dillion was going to be playing cards with Sly that evening, Martin allowed himself to be persuaded to join in. With three already, they just needed one more for a foursome. Monika was quickly persuaded to join in after being promised to be loaned some money by Dillion, since she had just sent her brother some cash and needed to skimp until her next payday.

  The foursome played for a few hours after work, keeping their bets small and mouths big so as to enjoy themselves as much as possible without putting anyone too far out or in a state that they couldn’t face the other in the morning. When the game died down, Monika met up with a few other of the female dockers and bar patrons and together they made their way home—the Grey Man had only preyed on the orphans and derelicts of the city so far, but that was no reason to take chances, and besides, the Grey Man was not the only horror out at night, particularly for the gentler sex.

  Sly and Dillion concocted a scheme to use Dillion’s new found battle scars as a way to pick up women. Martin, a married man, watched them from a table as a show of support. Really, Martin was watching Dillion intently. He was long familiar with the man’s awkwardness and the facial quirks that made him stick out so, but tonight he was watching for the slightest hint of the cosmic. If there was a hint of something there—Creator forbid it was something of the Devourer or the Beautiful Goddess—he decided he would go to Jacques for help. He couldn’t let a possible spy for a rival cosmic co-exist so peacefully alongside him while he was struggling to make any headway into his own investigations.

  After watching the two men flounder for a bit, Martin let the two know he had had enough and would be returning home before Boudica got angry at him again. He settled his tab and made his way to the door, but instead of heading for home, he found a spot across the street, almost exactly where he had waited those weeks ago for Martin to come out and meet his death. He hoped there would be no death tonight, but just in case he flexed his hand, calling the blade to his hand. He held it up, admiring the edge in the glow of the gaslight, and let it fade away back into nothingness.